


Your Birds, Your Gods

by enygmatic



Category: DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 07:28:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1104085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enygmatic/pseuds/enygmatic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A unstimulated evening soon escalates for the Riddler when he's drawn to the more public side of Gotham.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Birds, Your Gods

**Author's Note:**

> Did you rise to the crisis? Not a word,  
> you and your birds, your gods—nothing.  
> No, but I came by, Oedipus the ignorant,  
> I stopped the Sphinx! With no help from the birds,  
> the flight of my own intelligence hit the mark.  
> – Oedipus, 449-453 (Fagles)

Downtime in Gotham could be easily misconstrued as poetic: the sharper raindrops pattered against tall, brisk windows, the asphalt streets were soaked and clean and refuse easily drowned. There was a certain crisp, pristine image reflected from the warm glow of yellow lights against the darkening, wet night sky. In these moments, the urban landscape looked almost desirable -- as if the postcard variants weren't such baldfaced lies after all. Tonight was a purging with water, rather than blood or screams. 

But Edward Nygma couldn’t be moved by such gentle whimsy. He was bored. And boredom was the vilest of sins, boredom was (as he understood it) a personal insult. 

This would never do. 

“Query! Echo!” 

No whisper of an answer. He shifted in his plush green chair, frowning, considering where the girls might be. It was quite likely, he concluded that he had told them to spend the night out so he could plot out his next puzzle in peace. He might have offered numerous things, for an evening of lonesome focus. Granted, Eddie was only weeks fresh from his last Arkham bout; it proved to culminate in a rather brief stay, as he had left constructed instructions concerning how and when his henchgirls should implement his release. Eddie had learned the regular schedules of the food product distribution fleet that so regularly sold to Arkham's canteen, and the girls had always loved a good hijacking scenario. The only sour note came in the barrel-contained form of corned beef -- Eddie overestimated Jeremiah's taste in product. The smell took forty-eight hours to wash out. 

But now his desire for solitude grew wayward, and he hungered for conversation -- or, at least, companionship. Only raindrops offered to whet. In the back of his mind, an anagram grew: The PI Cat.

Pathetic. 

He shoved away his halfway riddled from the desk, clearing a space with spontaneous rage. This kind of vulnerability didn't suit his brand -- he was the Riddler, for god's sake! Everyone knew his name. How could that be pathetic? How? Eddie stood abruptly, kicking the edge foot of his thin wooden work desk, and skulked to the lofty window peering out over the streets below. Gotham's veins shown back at him brightly, the yellow golden lights of traffic and people and storefronts all unsympathetic to his plight. His brow furrowed in response, his calculation hesitant in how to interpret this reborn insult. 

That's when Edward caught himself anthropomorphizing a city. 

"Perhaps a walk might be beneficial," he said to the empty room. His voice echoed back to him. "Every proper evening ought to devote its inception to beseeching something wanton." 

Devotion, beseeching. Wanton. 

Pray lewd. 

Prelude. 

Eddie shrugging, thinking it satisfying enough. He'd hunt for a prelude before committing himself to his lonesome evening. 

\- - -

Despite his contention with his own boredom, it wasn't as if Eddie would find _nothing_ while walking the streets of Gotham. The electricity in the air alone -- the rush of people, of questions -- offered some basis of interest. The lick of danger inherent (needless the say, keeping to his derelict loft hideout was the safer option) also edged his nerves a touch. Donning spectacles for the occasion (a slothful attempt at a disguise, but Eddie worked with the few props he had in stock) and keeping devoid of green (something more of a challenge), the Riddler strolled out just as the crisp night clouds began to dissipate. No raindrops clung to his non-prescriptive lenses. The chill in the air determined how people would dress, and walk: very few dawdled, and fewer walked coatless. A stark anticipation smeared on the faces of some citizens revealed their newness to Gotham; the hard-boiled natives weren't as suspicious of Gothamite downtime, knowing that such a quiet would be broken. They've already accepted that inevitability. 

A twinge within Eddie's chest caused him to frown. This would have been ideal timing for one of his more _demonstrative_ performances, just a little bit of orchestrated chaos for an appropriate amount of attention. But the man had other plans already moving with the cogs: his next project was already dedicated to a heist (a Pre-Columbian Peruvian art exhibit would be touring the Gotham Art Museum shortly) and he hoped to coincide that event with distractions, lest any pointy-cowled individuals thought to intervene. Not every project was an intended show-and-tell, after all. 

Still. The milling, average city sounds were almost too peaceful. Irate horns honking from cars in stalled traffic, casual laughter emitting from engaged smiles. Umbrellas clicking back to be holstered. The humming of body parts moving. It was like a game of charades, all play pretend that gore hadn't soaked the streets before the rain. That the water was okay to drink, that hospitals were places you could trust. Gotham was a city of actors, and its asphalt just another stage. 

Edward's eyes moved across the avenue he walked down, catching easy sight of a lovely brown pair looking back at him. She had a sleek blonde bob and wore a sharp lilac trench coat, and she was watching people with the sort of disdain and curiosity that he was. She was the first to smile, and Edward found his lips mirroring her movement. They were about to pass each other on the street, their elbows (he calculated) would meet just two inches apart. Six more seconds to think of an ace of a line, Eddie. She hadn't yet dropped her gaze. 

He opened his mouth to say something (witty). 

And the two manholes lining that city block boomed, whistling heavy metal discs forty feet into the air. Hot, opaque fog poured out, flooding and rising the streets and sidewalks. The weakest began dropping to their knees, screaming and shuddering. 

Fog rushed out continuously, swirling and menacing and very likely malevolently chemical. 

He gripped the left lapel of his jacket, moving it over his face as an impromptu gasmask, and took a few steps back, easing into the doors of a show store before the clerks gathered the sense to lock up. The smile underneath his jacket wasn't shameful to him -- Edward was a Gothamite. He anticipated something interesting happening eventually, and it was pleasant to have been proven right.


End file.
